


gestalt

by Anonymous



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Blood, Gen, Minor Original Character(s), References to Drugs, idk man, it’s kind of a vent lol, references to danganronpa shit really there’s mentions of drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22079038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: we could be people, too. //amami rantarou has lived through far too many things that he wished would kill him.
Kudos: 9
Collections: Anonymous





	gestalt

there’s a girl who sits beside rantarou in english. she’s not the smartest or the sweetest, but she’s pretty and popular, and that means that he has to talk to her to keep his tentative position in the food chain secure. he has no idea what her name is and he doesn’t particularly care. her hair is dyed pink, a poor bleach job that’s fried her hair and left patches at the roots.

her name is written on the front of her textbook. enomiya kasane.

“amami-kun,” she says, looking at him over a bubblegum smile, “what are you doing tonight? any plans? i was thinking of going to the arcade.”

he sets his pen down thoughtfully, meeting enomiya’s dead blue eyes. he could go with her, get drunk off whatever they can convince the konbini workers to buy for them. maybe get high or something. they never actually stay in the arcades for long. she’s not unattractive, by any means, and there are worse people to fuck around with. enomiya’s a pleasant enough drunk, anyway. 

he shakes his head, smiling apologetically. 

“sorry. i have plans.”

her expression sours, and her acrylic nails dig into her palms. 

“like what?”

“i’m signing up for danganronpa.”

-

the line outside the main office building stretches for longer than rantarou cares to count, a winding rope of people trailing across the better part of shinjuku. businessmen, dark-coloured in their black suits, walk quickly past, eyes lowered or attention fixed on whatever conversation they’re having over phone. 

enomiya looks at the crowd like it’s personally offended her, lip curled in a half-sneer. she fixes rantarou with a sort of “are you fucking serious?” expression. maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to let her tag along.

(who’s he kidding? she’d come with either way. she’s like a parasite.)

he shrugs, looking around for the end of the line. 

“what can you do? just gotta wait, right?”

she takes him by the arm and drags him. past the lines, past the crowd, too chaotic to notice her cut-through. those who complain get either a “fuck off” or a “sorry, she really needs the bathroom” depending on who answers them first.

he doesn’t like enomiya. she’s loud and foul-mouthed and unpleasant to be around and complains too much and has no manners and can’t take a joke and is a pain in the ass to talk to and cheats on her homework and hangs out in ikebukoro with what’s left of the colour gangs and comes to school drunk enough that she can’t remember how to write the kanji in her name but not enough that she looks it and it pisses him off because he does the same thing.

but she’s just got them into the waiting room of danganronpa 52’s first day of auditions.

“number four one eight, amami rantarou? please come this way.”

-

he doesn’t tell his mom about the acceptance letter. he forges her signature

and sells his soul to be something.

-

rantarou stumbles out of the locker blindly, wincing as he lands awkwardly on his elbows. the air smells thickly of dust and smoke and decay, like someone left a bag of rotting fruit on the floor and set it on fire. he wrinkles his nose, feeling the ring piercing his septum brush his upper lip.

there’s a cough, like someone choking, coming from somewhere beside him, and rantarou glances around. a girl with short blue hair, more teal than actual blue, is slumped against the desk at the front of the classroom, her glasses askew and nose bleeding. she opens her eyes, hazy blue cutting holes into his, burning his retinas. is he someone she knows? a distant relative? he’ll never know. he doesn’t want to ask.

“hey, excuse me -“ she begins, as his footsteps echo down the hallway.

-

there are sixteen of them, gathered in the gym, including the blue-haired girl he’d left in the classroom. one by one, they begin to introduce themselves. rantarou mostly tunes out their names, the announcement of their ultimates. he knows he should care, sure, but he can’t. not when this whole place feels so off. it’s nothing personal. he just has to focus.

“kurofuji tsubaki. i’m the, uhm, super high school level scriptwriter.”

oh. that’s the girl from the classroom. scriptwriter. this place must be like a field day for her. nobody else seems to pick up on anything.

“enomiya kasane. remember the name when i’m standing over your dead bodies! super high school level mercenary.”

the smile on her face is like watching the world die.

-

“the first body has been discovered! please assemble at the -“

-

“a body has been discovered! go to the -“

-

“this is your - “

-

“attention, students of h-“

-

he doesn’t need to hear the announcement, not this time. enomiya’s body is warm, still warm, the blood pooling in the curves of her collarbone still fresh. her dead, blue eyes stare lifelessly up at the ceiling, accusing.

she’s fucking dead. it’s not going to fucking

stop. this disgusting fucking game won’t end until they’re all dead and lying on the cold ground like everyone else like enomiya like seto like kurebayashi like fujioka like narukami like katya like everyone he doesn’t want to die he doesn’t want to die he’s amami rantarou bitch he doesn’t want to die he’s not going to die he’s a survivor he’s an adventurer he didn’t stay alive this long to die like a fucking animal he can’t he has to live.

blood runs down the slashes in enomiya’s cheek like rivers.

-

he’s fucking 

alive 

but what for.

it’s like there’s a hole in the wall. like someone is looking in, 

godlike. running the show. how did it even get there? an accident? a bored habit? like an itch. he’s on this side. he’ll never know.

he doesn’t want to live. he doesn’t want to spend the rest of his fucking life in this school.

“sacrifice me.”

what’s the worst that could happen? survive?

-

there is no punishment worse than belonging to danganronpa.

-

his name is amami rantarou and he watches as they bury what’s left of the contestants of danganronpa 52 on national television. 

“excuse me?”

boy. shy. tall for his age. cool eyeliner. 

“could you sign this?”

a picture of his own face.

which amami

is he?

is he amami rantarou, Amami Rantarou, or amami ♡ rantarou?

he smiles patiently, pen in hand. 

“sure. who’s it to?”

the boy smiles oddly.

“nobody in particular. i’m nothing compared to you. you’re,” he grins “amami rantarou.”

he can feel his smile twitch, so he widens it a little more. don’t be shy, rantarou! be faker! less real! more character more danganronpa!

-

belonging to danganronpa is like selling your soul to satan but without the benefits, he thinks.

-

“amami-kun? we’re rolling.”

he leans forward on his chair, looking at the camera. looking himself in the eyes.

“first off, to hell with monokuma. he’s not the fucking ringleader.”

a sigh.

“cut.”

-

amami looks at the crowd around him.

“that makes sixteen.”

something familiar.

he can’t 

breathe.

-

“it’s you. no tricks. it’s you, so fucking get off your ass and - “

”cut.”

-

end this game kill the mastermind don’t let anyone else die survive survive survive survive the night survive the time limit survive one more day survive the first blood perk survive the mastermind survive the killing game survive survive survive survive get away from there what are you doing what’s that light what is that? what is that? fuck he doesn’t want to die but he survived that was close so close so

god, it hurts. he can’t breathe. like there’s a rock on his lungs. he can’t see but his eyes are open, can’t hear anything but static. he can feel 

-

“i like your piercings, amami-kun. they suit you.” her voice is melodic. he could die listening to her speak.

”thanks. i did them myself. mostly not that safe, but i managed.”

”for real? that’s cool! you think they have the stuff for that in the warehouse?”

”maybe. i could do it for you.”

-

his skull, (fractured, shattered) 

pressing and shifting 

into brain.

it hurts. he doesn’t want to die.

blue hair. floor length. 

“i’m sorry, amami-kun.”

who is that? who is that? who? who who who

“it’s nothing personal.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t have much to say. I wrote this at 3 in the morning I don’t care if it’s understandable. It’s a vent. In a way. Fuck this


End file.
